


Du meine Seele, du mein Herz

by SnowyWolff



Series: Prumano Week 2020 [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Nationverse, Poetry, Prumano Week 2020, Short ride through Pru’s history in combination with literature, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Y’all gonna want some dental insurance, set somewhere at the start of the 20th century
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25688752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowyWolff/pseuds/SnowyWolff
Summary: There is nothing more personal than sharing poetry with the person you love.
Relationships: Prussia/South Italy (Hetalia)
Series: Prumano Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862809
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	Du meine Seele, du mein Herz

**Author's Note:**

> For Prumano Week 2020 ([link](https://prumano-week.tumblr.com/post/622536036545921024/its-that-time-of-the-year-again-once-again-the)) - Day 1: Historical AU // Poetry/books
> 
> Ya know I picked both ✌️  
> Also english academic translations of the poetry at the end for those curious, so no need to grab google translate ;p

Prussia felt weirdly fidgety as Romano ran his sharp eyes across the titles in his bookcase, sliding his fingers across the worn spines with an absent thoughtfulness. He didn’t really understand his nervousness, as the topic of literature had been often broached and discussed between them—Romano, after all, consumed books at a dizzying pace—but he still felt protective of his small collection, especially the steadily growing treasury of poetry he finally allowed himself to own and display without self-consciousness.

To him, poetry was deeply personal. When he had been confined to the monastery and been taught how to read after years of fighting for the Holy Land, he had become enamoured with the prettiness of hymns, reciting them by heart in the dark hours of the night. They were comfort because God was comfort, or so he believed, then.

And after his grandmaster had been granted his ducal title, Prussia—the Teutonic Knights then—had been brought to Poland’s court. Poland and Lithuania hadn’t changed at all and Prussia, who had no desire to kiss the rings on Poland’s fingers any more than he had before, found a hiding place in the library at night.

Even if he struggled to understand meaning and emotion.

The latter especially had eluded him, a boy who was made to fight, to become bloodlust and survival. Humans, monks, Nations—they always told him there was something wrong with him. His people expected him to be a demon, with his white hair, his red eyes and his left hand, lauding in the judgement of the infidels. Emotions such as love, kindness and compassion were unknown to him, even when he was confined to the monastery, under the care of his brothers that whispered prayers as he passed them in the halls. His grasp on humanity was shaky at best and never did improve under Poland’s silent disdain and Lithuania’s thinly-veiled insults Prussia had never understood, unused to the games of court.

When he was unceremoniously dumped on Brandenburg’s doorstep, he still could not understand. He was a wild teen without a name, disinclined to trust the people in charge of him and desperately looking for recognition, for the validation he had only received through war. Brandenburg despaired at him, forcing him out of trees and into stiff clothes, and introduced him to court etiquette.

Yet, it was Brandenburg who sat him down and taught him how to read and interpret literature. She explained the meaning behind the emotions he had never grasped and gave him the name he still bore. Finally, he began to understand what it meant to be human, just a little more.

It was then he truly became interested in the world of literature Brandenburg more than happily provided, though it was soon retired, hidden away underneath pillows and documents as he was elevated to a kingdom.

War became important yet again, had never really stopped being important, and he was no Austria, hiding in scores and culture as he delegated from his high horse. Prussia fought, tooth and nail, blood and soul, to be the pride of his kings, even as Brandenburg gazed upon him with silent pity.

Poetry was his secret, even when others tried to engage on the topic with him, Prussia feigned disinterest. He waged war and played along with politics, going years without reading a work of literature, even as Brandenburg continued to leave him rectangular-shaped gifts, wrapped in brown paper with “food for the head and the heart” written on in her neat angular script. He kept them, wrapped and untouched, in the back of his closet.

Then the Holy Roman Empire fell and Gilbert was no longer just a machine of war; he was an older brother. Literature became important again because the German Confederation wanted bedtime stories, and in his utter panic to appease the young child, Prussia had pulled the first collection of poetry he could find from the shelves to read to him.

And while he fell back into literature, he could not yet permit it to hinder his performance. There were still battles to be fought and wars to be won, wheedling the kid out from Austrian hands and influence. And while he was so busy crushing Austria underneath the heel of his boot, he was approached by Romano, and for the first time in his life—sans maybe Hungary if he felt like being honest (and maybe Austria if he was _really_ drunk)—Prussia found a purpose in poetry.

Because Romano _was_ poetry. He moved and talked with meaning, yet so much was left unsaid too. He was beauty, distracting the eyes from what more there was to uncover, and he was intellect, cleverness in wit and cunning as he spoke in silver tones.

It had always been Prussia’s private opinion, however, that no poetry could truly capture Romano. Prussia had tried—still tried—to match works to the object of his desire, mouthing lines and stanzas against Romano’s skin and whispering them like prayers in the night when no one was listening, but they were a poor man’s substitute for the sheer reality of Romano.

Still, at the dawn of the twentieth century, there was unsettling peace, a tranquillity not meant to last—after all, Prussia knows when to predict conflict, when the anticipation and breathlessness of nationalism rears its head and opens its jaw. He knows that peace is an illusion for Nations, and though he had protected the German Empire, now a gangly teen who filled in around the shoulders even quicker than America had, it wouldn’t be much longer before he, too, would come to understand.

Yet, for now—

Prussia had to wonder whether Romano had modelled for some of those neoclassical statues, all handsome features, not too sharp and not too round, broad-shouldered yet sleek, a perk ass and well-endowed—though, he supposed, the latter had not been translated too well if so. Regardless, Romano’s backside was one of Prussia’s favourite sights, alongside the terraced gardens of Sanssouci and the view from the monastery toward the Baltic Sea.

Romano straightened up after another (heavenly) moment of nosing through Prussia’s bookcase, halfway turned toward Prussia when he caught his eyes flicking up, smirking as he faced Prussia fully. He seemed to consider for a moment before striding over, smoothly seating himself on Prussia’s lap, knees on either side of his legs, arms resting on his shoulders.

Prussia flashed a not-so-innocent smile as he settled his hands on Romano’s behind, giving it a quick squeeze that made Romano’s eyes burn into his. “Done browsing?” he asked as he slowly moved his hands around.

Tipping his head back—and, oh, how tempting it was to mark that slender neck—and arching his back, Romano hummed in mock consideration. “I think I’ve found something to my liking,” he said as he eyed Prussia hungrily.

Prussia licked his lips, ready to steal a kiss as Romano leaned in, only to be disappointed when Romano pulled back just out of reach with a teasing smile.

“Recite something for me,” he whispered, treating the request with a sacred reverence because he, too, understood the secrecy that came with poetry.

It wasn’t a difficult request. Prussia knew poetry by mind and heart after all, but it was personal. The words he chose to share would mean so much more in the shallow space between their lips. There was a choice to be made, to be considered and weighted. The language, the period, the writer, the subject, the content and the context, the intended and unintended meaning—

What poetry would bare his heart?

His throat felt dry, uncooperative, and he searched Romano’s eyes for some courage. Those eyes, normally so sharp, so guarded, now filled with a gentleness that was Prussia’s alone. It warmed his breast and calmed his heart, more so as he pulled Romano a little closer, finding his heartbeat underneath his shirt.

Romano took pity on him, leaning closer to whisper a secret of his own, making Prussia shiver as his warm breath ghosted over his ear:

“ _Al cor gentil rempaira sempre amore  
come l_ _’ausello in selva a la verdura;  
nè fe’ amore anti ch’amor, natura,  
ch’adesso con’ fu ‘l sole,  
sì tosto lo splendore fu lucente,  
nè fu davanti ‘l sole;  
e prende amore in gentilezza loco  
così propïamente  
come calore in clarità di foco._”

He pressed his lips against Prussia’s upper jaw, muttering more Italian along his cheekbone and down to his mouth, lost against his skin, but deliberate all the same. With a gentleness that Prussia knew so well now, even though it was still a little new and a little unfamiliar, Romano cradled his face in both his hands, drawing him in to kiss his lips languidly.

Sometimes, in soft moments like these, Prussia tried to pinpoint just what exactly kissing with Romano felt like. His lips were featherlight, yet grounding, never flighty, unless Romano was being coy. It blurred the lines between physicality (though they could be: physical and demanding, hot, rough, too much tongue and teeth and lust) and feelings, where his heart swelled beyond the confines of his chest and his head accepted surrender to the overwhelming emotion of Romano sharing this serenity between them. Romano treated him as if he was precious—and Prussia should have issues with that, somehow, because he was hardly a man made of porcelain, but something in his chest would constrict whenever Romano treated him with care and, dare he say it, love. It was a certain tightness, a weakness, but when Romano treated him as if he was the most precious thing on this whole Earth, Prussia felt it was okay to be weak, to be taken care of and loved.

It was so sickeningly sappy, something France would coo at should he ever catch wind of it, but when this was just between the two of them, Prussia felt at peace, a tranquillity that didn’t exist anywhere but with Romano.

When the kisses shortened, were interspersed with smiles and little huffs of laughter, then finally tapered off, Prussia leaned in to share his heart. His voice trembled as he whispered, his body feeling too hot, too embarrassed with the words he was sharing:

“ _Du meine Seele, du mein Herz,  
Du meine Wonn_ _’, O du mein Schmerz,  
Du meine Welt, in der ich lebe,  
Mein Himmel du, darein ich schwebe,  
O du mein Grab, in das hinab  
Ich ewig meinen Kummer gab!  
Du bist die Ruh, du bist der Frieden,  
Du bist vom Himmel mir beschieden.  
Dass du mich liebst, macht mich mir wert,  
Dein Blick hat mich vor mir verklärt,  
Du hebst mich liebend über mich,  
Mein guter Geist, mein bess’res Ich!_”

He felt heady and breathless when those last words passed his lips, nothing more than a shy murmur. Hesitantly, he hovered by Romano’s ear, afraid to show Romano the expression he might wear.

Romano shifted closer and wrapped his arms around him with a soft sigh, nestling Prussia’s head into the crook of his neck as he ran his fingers through his hair soothingly. His voice was soft, but so genuine as he spoke, “And you are mine.”

Prussia held him tightly, fingers curling into the light fabric of Romano’s tunic, breathing in his earthly smell and using it to ground himself. For surely, it felt as if he was dreaming—intimacy like this did not exist outside of romance novels and love poetry, not for beings like them, formed through dirt, war and human unity. They were but a shadow of the people that sustained their existence; love, that warm gentleness with which humanity grew, had no place in their reality.

Yet, here he was—held, warm, connected, desperately in love—with the man he had given his body, heart and soul to.

And, perhaps more scandalously, he was content with it. At peace with this odd turn of reality. But it was his reality for now, for as long as he could hold on to Romano and Romano would hold on to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Im really soft for these two being sappy and lovesick lmao  
> Comments are always loved and appreciated <333
> 
> Excerpt from _Al cor gentil rempaira sempre amore_ by Guido Guinizelli  
> Love seeks its dwelling always in the gentle heart,  
> like a bird in the green of the forest;  
> nor did nature create love before the gentle heart,  
> or the gentle heart before love—  
> just as when the sun came into being,  
> in that instant its splendour shone forth,  
> nor did that splendour come before the sun;  
> and love takes its place in the gentle heart  
> as naturally  
> as heat in the brightness of fire.
> 
> _Du meine Seele, du mein Herz_ by Friedrich Rückert  
> O thou my soul, O thou my heart,  
> thou my delight, my pain thou art,  
> the world art thou, which I discover,  
> my heaven thou, in which I hover,  
> O thou my grave, the open tomb  
> in which I bury grief and gloom!  
> My rest and my tranquility  
> art thou, that heaven granted me.  
> That thou shouldst love me, makes me greater,  
> thy glance has been my new creator,  
> thou raisest me with love on high,  
> my guiding light, my better I.


End file.
